Ten Years Gone
by detectivetimehunter
Summary: Sequel to Bring Him Home. John finds out what his deal with Cassie was about. Does he really want to know what is around the corner for him when he ten years are up? Warning: major character death


**AN: Sequel to "Bring Him Home". It would help if you read that first.**

**John finds out what is around the corner for him when his ten years are up.**

**Warning: main character death**

**Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters**

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"Oh John, what have you done?" Sherlock turned on his heel and headed out of the cemetery, his feet crunching on the autumn leaves.

Two years later

"Not dead." Sherlock couldn't have anticipated John's hands reaching towards him and grabbing his shirt, forcing him backwards and sending him crashing to the floor.

Sherlock could understand why John was upset and hurt. He had planned on returning to him as soon as he had been resurrected but ended up getting distracted by trying to break John's deal without him knowing. He knew that John only had eight years left before Cassie came to collect. His only thoughts right now were protecting his friend from the horrible thing that would happen to him when the ten years had ended.

John had spent the last two years waiting for his friend to return to him, just like Cassie had promised. He had spent months believing that any day now, Sherlock would knock at the door and would be stood there with a massive grin on his face. As the months dragged on, John started losing hope until he met Mary. She helped him through his ordeal and made him see sense. Sherlock was not returning to him.

Now, as he saw his friend stood before him, he felt the dark pit in his stomach become filled with the joy of Sherlock's return.

"Mary," Sherlock spoke many days after he had returned. "Would you mind if John and I had a few moments alone?"

Mary eyed him curiously and nodded, getting to her feet and heading away from the room. John stared at Sherlock, not sure what to expect. Before John understood what was happening, Sherlock gripped his shirt and forced him against the wall, knocking the air from his lungs out of him.

"Sherlock, wha-" he gasped.

"How could you do it, John?" Sherlock growled.

"Do what?" John demanded, feeling anger rising in him.

"Sell your soul!" Sherlock yelled in despair, his voice breaking.

"What?" John scoffed. "You're crazy, Sherlock."

"No John." Sherlock spoke, trying to calm down. "I know you met that girl in the bar; Cassie. She said she would bring me back if you gave her something in return."

"Sherlock, she was some crazy chick." John told him and gripped Sherlock's forearms. "And besides, you didn't turn up here until two years after I spoke to her."

"How do I know about her then?" Sherlock asked.

"Well I don't know," John chuckled slightly. "Maybe you've been spying on me."

"No," Sherlock shook his head vigorously. "She was there when she brought me back. She told me what you did. I've tried to save you, John. These past two years I've tried non stop to get you out of your deal, but they won't let you out."

"Sherlock," John said soothingly. "I don't understand what's so bad. You're back and I'm glad you are."

"You don't understand," Sherlock let go of John and collapsed back into his seat, holding his head in his hands. "I've done my research, John. People who have made deals with random women in bars. They say they'll be back in ten years time. John, you have eight years left."

"Eight years left until what?" John questioned.

"Until you die," Sherlock looked up at John through tear-filled eyes.

"That's right years away, Sherlock." John informed. "It's not like I'm going right this minute. I mean, we all die someday, right?"

"Do you think this is a joke?" Sherlock snapped. "You're not just 'going to die' John. People who sell their souls get visited by hellhounds when their ten years are up. They get torn to pieces before having their souls dragged to hell so I'm sorry if I'm overreacting here!"

The next thing that came out of John's mouth was a hysterical, high-pitched cackle. Sherlock stared at him.

"You're joking, right?" John laughed.

"Do I look like I'm joking?"

"Okay..." John trailed off. "So, say you are telling the truth, what do we do about it?"

"I don't know," Sherlock spoke quietly.

"What do you mean 'you don't know'?" John asked. "You're Sherlock Holmes. You always know what to do so tell me!"

"John, I have tried." Sherlock pleaded. "These past two years I have tried every way I know to try and rescue you but I can't. And I can't watch you die."

John swallowed and crouched in front of his best friend. "I'm sorry."

Eight Years Later

"Stay in this room and don't you dare move from the circle!" Sherlock yelled as he poured goofer dust around John chair and by the doors and windows.

John's hallucinations had started a good few hours ago. He could hear the hounds barking and scratching at the door. Sherlock was doing everything he could to try and hold the hounds off. He had researched that goofer dust could help as he hellhounds couldn't cross it. They both knew, however, that the dust wouldn't last forever.

"Sherlock," John spoke softly. "I'm scared."

Sherlock's eyes cut to John and he crouched in front of him, touching his cheek lightly with his hand.

"I know, John." Sherlock said. "So am I. But I'm gonna protect you."

John swallowed and nodded. He had every faith in Sherlock but he knew that there was no point. He would be dead come morning.

It wasn't long before the door burst open and Sherlock was sent flying into the wall clutching his bleeding side where the hound had caught him. John got to his feet to run to Sherlock's aid but was stopped by Sherlock yelling.

"No John! Stay where you are!"

John could do nothing but watch helplessly as his friend struggled on the floor. He saw the scratches from the hellhounds claws appear on the flood around the circle of dust. The dust began to blow away and John took a step back. He glanced over at his friend.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock."

John was knocked off his feet and was dragged across the floor. The claws of the hounds ripped into his skin; blood spewing from the wounds and his mouth.

"JOHN, NO JOHN!"

It wasn't long before the hellhounds left and Sherlock was alone in the room with the body of his best friend. He dragged himself across the floor to John's side and held him in his eyes, tears running slowly down his face.

"I'm sorry, John."

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